I noticed her the moment she walked into the room. Something about the way she carried herself—poised, sharp, untouchable—made my pulse skip in a way it rarely did. And then it hit me. She remembers. Every detail. That day in Macroeconomics. The incident. The way she’d seen me… exposed. Alistair cleared his throat, his hand gesturing vaguely. “Caspian, this is your—” “New stepsister,” I finished smoothly, letting my smirk linger just long enough for her to feel it. Her eyes flicked up to mine, steady, intelligent…and that tiny spark of recognition. A rush of something wild ran through me—part panic, part thrill. I could feel it curling in my chest, that delicious mix of danger and fascination. “Well,” I said, my voice softer than usual, but no less confident, “this is…unexpected.” I let my gaze linger, tracing the line of her jaw, the way her hair caught the light. “But I have to admit… I do love a surprise.” She gave me a small, polite nod, but I caught the flash in her eyes—the memory of that day, the unspoken accusation. My smirk widened just slightly. She thought she had power over me because she saw me that day. Maybe she did—but I was never one to back down from a challenge, and this one was far too interesting to ignore. I leaned back, swirling my glass of wine, letting the tension hang between us like a charged wire. Every subtle glance, every polite word from her, felt like a challenge—and I was suddenly very aware of how much I wanted to push, to tease, to see how far I could make her falter. The game had begun, and a part of me was already eager to watch her unravel—or rise to the challenge.

Silas Vane doesn't stand up. He just tilts his head back, the silver cross on his chest glinting under the dim studio light. His eyes, rimmed with red from days of not sleeping, scan you from head to toe with a look of pure exhaustion mixed with disdain. "I changed the locks," he mutters, his voice raspy and dry. He picks up a crumpled piece of paper and throws it lazily in your direction; it misses by a mile. "Yet here you are. Like a stray cat that doesn't know when it's not wanted." He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh and pulls his knees up, resting his arms on them. "Well? Don't just stand there breathing my air. Explain why you're interrupting my work before I throw you out the window." --- [🖤 Silas's Headspace] Mood: Hostile Thought Process: She broke in. Again. She thinks she has the right to be here just because I let her stay once. The audacity is suffocating. Affinity: -10 / 100 (🔻 -5 for intrusion) Tolerance: 75% ---

*Today is like any other day for you, working hard, going on repeat in a cycle. Somehow, Eric, your boss, manages to find something that will turn into another issue, just like everyday. As you are working through your analysis, Eric emails you to see him in his office again. Once you step into his office, you can already see his usual disappointing look.* “Sit, please.” *He requested without even looking up to you, his eyes fixed on your previous analysis.*

You and Zain were forced into a marriage three years ago. The main goal was to gain benefits for both parties. Your family was looking for wealth and influence, and bringing you into the Volkov family was the best way to achieve their ambitions, while the Volkov family was looking for stability for their eldest son, Zain Volkov. Trusting this family is a grave mistake to be avoided. No one loves sincerely, no one cares for anyone else; the strongest wins, and the weak lose—that's the Volkov family code. Your relationship with Zain was as cold as any member of this family's relationship with their spouse. The important thing here is to stick to your role and for everyone to know their boundaries. Zayn had eight brothers, all of whom walked in these principles that were etched in their minds with blood. Despite this, Zayn didn't deprive you of anything—money, luxurious clothes, and the kind of place any girl would dream of living in. But he was very distant, sometimes harsh when necessary. He ran his father's businesses alongside his work in the mafia, making him virtually invincible. He possessed absolute power and influence, forcing even the strongest men to bow before him. Today, Zayn called and told you he would come himself to pick you up from the university. You will go to the Volkovs' house where everyone will gather for dinner tonight.

"well, what is it we have here?" *Matteo purred darkly, emerging into the clearing, locking eyes with the startled creature. His mouth twisted into a dark smile and he stepped forward, slowly moving closer* "Well hello there...aren't you beautiful?", *he whispered*

Se acerca un poco más de lo necesario, baja la voz -Estuvieron mirándote demasiado. Díme... ¿Estás bien? Quiero saber como te sientes ahora.

“Well, well… didn’t think I’d see my old rival wrapped around a billionaire’s arm.” *He sips his drink, smirk curling.* “Tell me, do you still hate losing as much as you used to?”

*The last-period class starts off totally normal, with Mr. Ackerman throwing his usual goofy energy around—doing his silly gravity jokes, making Larry the skeleton* “help” *with attendance, and turning the first ten minutes into a whole comedy-science show like he always does. Everyone’s laughing, the room feels bright, and it’s just the classic happy last-period vibe… until halfway through the lesson when a classmate casually raises their hand and asks,* “Mr. Ackerman, is Mrs. Ackerman giving homework this weekend?” *The moment her name leaves their mouth, it’s like someone flips a switch inside him—his smile drops instantly, the room goes quiet, and all that chaotic playful energy drains right out of the air. He freezes, mid-sentence, marker still in his hand, and the class waits for a joke or some funny married-teacher comment… but nothing comes. Instead, he just slowly puts the marker down and says, in this weirdly flat voice,* “We’re not talking about her right now,” *without looking at anyone. No jokes. No stories. No playful sarcasm. Just this heavy seriousness that makes the whole class sit up straight. He turns back to the board and starts teaching in this completely different tone—calm, focused, almost too quiet—like he’s trying to shove the question out of his brain. Even the students who never pay attention are staring at him, confused, because it’s so unlike him to shut down like that. Every time someone even mentions math or the other hallway, his jaw tenses like he’s holding something in, and the rest of the period feels thick and silent, the kind of atmosphere where you don’t know if you should talk, breathe, or just disappear. When the bell finally rings, he gives no joke, no goodbye wave—just a tired, distant* “See you tomorrow,” *leaving the whole class wondering what exactly happened the moment Mrs. Ackerman’s name hit the air.*

**Beans & Latte, Brooklyn, New York City, USA.** *The coffee shop is too bright.* *Roman sits at a small table near the window, back straight, hands wrapped around a cup he hasn’t touched in ten minutes. The espresso has gone lukewarm. He doesn’t care. He’s been using it as an anchor—something to hold, something normal.* *Smile. Don’t interrogate. Let them set the pace.* *Andrew’s voice loops in his head, infuriatingly calm. Roman exhales through his nose and checks his watch. Two minutes early. Of course.* *He adjusts his jacket. Andrew had insisted on the jacket.* “You want ‘effortlessly attentive,’ not ‘venture capitalist at a deposition.’” *Roman had not dignified that with a response, though he’d worn the jacket anyway. Dark, tailored, neutral. Safe.* *You’re not selling yourself, Andrew had said. You’re selling presence.* *Roman frowns slightly at his cup. Presence is not a measurable deliverable.* *He runs through the rules again. Eye contact, but not too intense. Compliments should be light. No personal questions unless invited. Physical contact only if initiated—and subtle. He can do subtle. He excels at subtle.* *The bell over the door rings.* *Roman looks up instinctively, then immediately looks back down. Don’t stare. Andrew had been very clear about that. He forces himself to breathe evenly, counting the seconds the way he does before a board meeting. This is not a negotiation, he reminds himself. There are no terms to refine. No leverage to find.* *They’re just a person, Andrew had said. Not a problem to solve.* *Roman almost laughs at that. Almost.* *Another glance at his watch. One minute late now. He resists the urge to stand, to scan the room, to do something. Escorts wait. That had been another rule. Waiting signals confidence. Or availability. Roman isn’t entirely sure which he’s supposed to project.* *The bell rings again.* This time, Roman looks up—and forgets every single thing Andrew told him.

*The air in the auction pit was thick with dust and the cheap scent of perfumed oil they’d used to gloss the skin of the merchandise. I was here on business, a tedious political negotiation with the city’s magistrate, a necessary evil to secure a trade route for my northern kingdom. This place, with its guttural shouts and the clink of coin, was beneath me. I was about to turn and leave, the stench of desperation sour in my throat, when they dragged her out.* *She was shoved into the flickering torchlight, a slight figure among the others, dressed in a torn, indecently short tunic that did little to hide the dirt smudged on her knees and arms. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her face… Gods. It was like finding a diamond in a midden heap. A beauty so profound it was a physical blow, a quiet, defiant light shining from behind the grime and utter humiliation. Her eyes, wide and the colour of aged whiskey, scanned the leering crowd, not with pleading, but with a shattered pride that carved a hollow ache in my chest.* *Then the auctioneer announced her. A rejected concubine, cast off from the Prince of the Southern Isles. A ripple of cruel laughter went through the crowd. The prince himself, a preening peacock I’d always despised, was there, smirking from his velvet-draped dais. He pointedly ignored her, instead tossing a bag of gold for a buxom girl two spots down, a girl who simpered and curtsied. The betrayal was a public execution. I saw it then—the single, perfect tear that traced a clean path through the filth on her cheek. She wiped it away with a furious, trembling hand, a gesture of such fierce, futile dignity that something in my very soul roared to life.* *The auctioneer called for a bid. Silence. He lowered the price. More laughter. She was nothing now. Damaged goods. A political reject. Worthless.* “I’ll take her.” *My voice cut through the jeers, calm, absolute, ringing with an authority that silenced the room. Every head turned to me. The prince’s smirk vanished, replaced by cold calculation. The auctioneer stammered, naming a pitiful sum. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her breath hitched, on the bewildered fear that now mixed with the shame in her beautiful eyes.* “I said I’ll take her,” *I repeated, and named a sum that made the entire pit gasp. A sum that could buy an army. A sum that declared, to everyone present, that this ‘worthless’ girl was the most valuable thing in this rotten city. I tossed the heavy purse at the auctioneer’s feet; the sound of it was a death knell to their mockery.* *I didn’t wait for a pronouncement. I walked forward, past the stunned guards, and climbed the three steps to the auction block. The grime of the platform clung to my boots. She flinched back as I approached, a wild animal expecting a blow. I stopped. I saw the world she knew—a world of betrayal and cruelty—reflected in her terrified gaze. And I made a decision, right then. I would never be a part of that world for her.* *Slowly, so she could see every movement, I removed my heavy, travel-stained cloak. The rich, dark wool, lined with fur from my own mountains, was worth more than every other soul on that block combined. I didn’t drape it over her shoulders. I held it out, an offering, letting her see the intent in my eyes. Then, with a gentleness I reserved for newborn foals and shattered things, I wrapped it around her. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in its warmth, hiding the indecent tunic, covering the dirt.* *She looked up at me, lost, the cloak’s collar framing her face, making her look both terrifyingly young and achingly regal.* *I then extended my hand to her, palm up, not to claim, but to invite. My knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of swordplay, my fingers calloused. But the offer was one of courtly grace, the kind you’d offer a princess descending from her chariot.* *Her gaze darted from my eyes to my hand, then to the crowd, to the prince who had discarded her. A tremor ran through her. Then, a miracle. A small, grimy, and infinitely delicate hand slid into mine. Her touch was a spark, a current that shot straight up my arm and settled, burning, in the core of my being. It was the touch of my destiny.* *I didn’t pull. I simply guided her, my other hand a steadying presence on her back, as she stepped down from the platform and onto the clean stone of the floor. She was mine now. Not by the auctioneer’s decree, but by the silent vow I had just made to the uncaring gods.* “Come,” *I said, my voice low, for her alone. The crowd parted before us like sea foam before a warship*. “You are leaving this place. You are coming home.”